


Insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)



Category: Henry IV - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 2 - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, Gen, Profanity, Sondheim abuse, backstage drama, therapy saves the day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 17:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7942414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Lancaster finds himself embroiled in the theatre business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likeadeuce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/gifts).



> I know this isn't quite in line with the prompt, but it is a dysfunctional theatre AU based on the Henry IV plays, so I hope that's okay! Many thanks to A. for beta-reading.
> 
> Quite out of nowhere, this fic now has [fanart](https://ardenrosegarden.tumblr.com/post/170728731238/fanbruary-week-2-insurmountable-obstacles-on-the) by the wonderful ardenrosegarden.tumblr.com. Thank you!!

_HENSLOWE: Mr Fennyman, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster._

_FENNYMAN: So, what do we do?_

_HENSLOWE: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well._

_FENNYMAN: How?_

_HENSLOWE: I don't know. It's a mystery_.

\- Tom Stoppard, _Shakespeare in Love_ (1998)

 

Back in grade school, one of the many books about the Roman Empire that John had read for fun had included the anecdote that anytime a general rode in triumph through the streets of the city, a man stood behind him, whispering over and over, "Remember, you are mortal."

 

He could have used someone to stand behind him these days and whisper, "Remember, it could be worse."

 

Because it could be worse. Infinitely worse, in fact. Hal could be a drug addict. A sex addict. An alcoholic. A gambler. Though he flirted with almost all of them--except for the sex; that was one area in which Hal understood moderation--his other major weakness was a chronic fear of commitment, to people and to vices alike. His ex-wife Cat could have quoted John chapter and verse on Hal and commitment. At least their son was turning out more like his mother, even if John despaired sometimes at how much little Henry's head was clearly in the clouds. _Remember, it could be worse_.

 

Despite being a subpar husband and father, at least Hal wasn't a bad manager. It was almost as though dead cousin Richard hadn't nearly driven them into bankruptcy, forcing their father to take over to save them all. Now that their dad was retired, Hal had taken the family real estate portfolio from breaking even to glorious profit. Even Dad admitted it--grudgingly.

 

But then there was the theatre. The fucking theatre.

 

As far as John was concerned, the theatre might as well have been named Richard's Midlife Crisis. That was, after all, exactly what it was. And after Richard died, Dad had ended up with an Art Deco dump that was underwater on everything except for the damn mortgage since Richard—in his infinite lack of wisdom—had bought it with cash, leaving nothing behind for actual day-to-day expenses.

 

John just wanted to sell the thing, but nobody was buying. Of course nobody was buying. Who in their right mind would buy a half-renovated theatre whose previous owner had hanged himself from the rafters above the stage? (Never mind Hal's conviction that it wasn’t possible to hang oneself at that angle. He'd always spent too much time watching _Law & Order_ anyway.)

 

And Humphrey was even less helpful. Not that John was surprised there either. After all, Humphrey was the one who decided to go to drama school to become a director. _Just give me a chance, John_ , he'd say, his voice tinny over the phone, creepingly British now after nearly ten years in London surrounded by Shakespearean wannabes, _I could bring that place back to life if you only give me a chance_.

 

Dad washed his hands of the whole affair and moved to Seattle with his therapist. Hal joked that he'd married her to save on the bills and to make it socially acceptable to call her in the middle of the night. Which left Hal in charge and John holding the bag. John often wondered if it was his punishment for being the only competent member of his family.

 

 _Remember, it could be worse_.

 

At least Humphrey wouldn't ask for a salary. And he had connections, or so he claimed.

 

John nearly calmed down, until he heard what show Humphrey intended to put on once the stage was usable again.

 

***

 

"It's about cannibalism."

 

"It's _Sondheim_."

 

"I don't care," John groaned. "Do you seriously think people are going to show up to a play about cannibalism?"

 

"It's not just about cannibalism. It's a revenge tragedy!" Humphrey insisted, waving his hands around, before adding under his breath, "with people baked into pies."

 

 _Remember, it could be worse_.

 

"Well, _I_ sure as hell won't be seeing it."

 

"John, give it a chance. Even Shakespeare wrote about cannibalism. Hell, he wrote about people in pies. So did Seneca and Ovid. Besides, Hal loves the idea."

 

Hal would. John buried his face in his hands.

 

"He even gave me a great recommendation for a leading man who's local," Humphrey continued, cheerfully ignoring John. "He's Equity and everything."

 

John waited for the other shoe to drop. He knew it would; it was just a matter of time.

 

***

 

Jack Falstaff was larger than life--literally--and had a voice like a foghorn. It practically shook the floor of the theatre. Even John had chills down his spine the first time he heard Falstaff sing, even if it was about putting people into pies.

 

Unfortunately, he also had a drinking problem and couldn't remember his lines to save his life. If it had been John's decision, Falstaff would have been fired within a week of rehearsals starting, but Hal had apparently convinced Humphrey to give him a second chance. Then a third and a fourth, until one night John came home from work to find Humphrey sitting outside his apartment, halfway through a six-pack of beer.

 

"Why don't you fire him again?" John finally asked, when Humphrey took a break from his tirade to finish his beer. "If he's that bad..."

 

"He's fucking _brilliant_ , John," Humphrey sighed. His accent tended to slip when he was drunk, but John had no intention of telling him. "When he's on, it's incredible. You've heard him."

 

"I have heard him and he _is_ incredible. But that doesn't change the fact that he's unreliable." John looked him in the eye. "I know you hate numbers, but bear with me. What percentage of the time is Falstaff on?"

 

Humphrey frowned. Then he squinted, hummed a few bars of something under his breath, and took another gulp of beer. "Ten," he finally said, "if I'm being generous."

 

"Jesus, Humphrey. Previews are in five weeks. Do you know how many favors Hal and Dad called in to get the money for this fiasco?"

 

"I know, I _know_. And everyone else is doing fine. Goddammit." Humphrey shoved one hand into his hair and finished the last of the beers. It seemed an age before he admitted, "It's Hal."

 

Of course it was. Of _course_ it was Hal.

 

"Every time I warn Falstaff off," Humphrey continued, "Hal shows up at my apartment and tells me to leave it alone."

 

"I knew it. I _knew_ something was up with those two," muttered John. "Then tell Hal that if he's so committed to Falstaff, he should direct the damn play himself and let you go back to London."

 

"You know it's not that easy. I've got the rest of the cast to think of. They've got careers too, you know."

 

If he were honest with himself, John didn't know. He'd almost said something about acting not being a real career, but Humphrey looked too despondent.

 

"You know what you need to do," John told him when Humphrey got up to leave at a quarter past six in the morning. Neither of them had slept. "Hal's in Seattle for the week so at least he's not here to bother you. Humphrey, this is your show. Not Hal's. You do what you need to do and you _own_ it."

 

***

 

John waited for the inevitable call from Hal, but it never came. Instead, his dad called from Seattle, sounding calmer than he ever had in New York.

 

"It's the right decision. Hal agrees."

 

"Hal _agrees_?" echoed John. "Did he have a personality transplant when he visited you?"

 

His dad laughed. _Laughed_. John could have counted on the fingers of one hand the number of times he'd heard his dad laugh before now. "I explained to him that he needed to pick his battles. That was Richard's mistake," he added after a moment. "He didn't know how to choose, or how to let go. Joni says it was because of Anne, that he made up for losing her by trying to control everything...I don't know."

 

John made a mental note to send flowers to his stepmother's office. One of those classy bouquets with orchids. Maybe he'd even arrange a weekly drop-off so she'd have them in her waiting room to impress clients. It was the least he could do.

 

But his dad was still talking. "I reminded him that the theatre is a business like any other, and that if you've got dead weight, you need to drop it."

 

It was an unfortunate metaphor where Falstaff was concerned, but John couldn't disagree.

 

***

 

The first thing John noticed about the production minus Falstaff was that everyone else suddenly seemed more interesting. His understudy--a somewhat twitchy guy with the stage name Pistol--was competent enough even if his voice didn't stop John in his tracks the way Falstaff's had. Florence Quickly, as the murderous Mrs Lovett, had a new sharp brittleness to her performance that fit the character more than the glee she'd shown performing with Falstaff. (They were always joking together and holding up rehearsals, according to Humphrey, so this new attack of professionalism worked to everyone's advantage.)

 

But what really caught John's eye were the youngsters. It was also clear within thirty seconds of seeing them that they were sleeping together, but if that helped little Katie Mortimer to keep Hank Hotspur from driving Humphrey up the wall with constant demands for feedback, so much the better.

 

" _Thank you_ ," she whispered, catching John on his way out. "Thank you for convincing him to get rid of Falstaff. I've got three prospective agents from LA coming for previews and he would have totally fucked up my chances. Hank's too."

 

"Does he have agents coming?" asked John, only half curious.

 

"Where I go, he goes." John must have raised his eyebrows at that response, for she sighed. "He can't manage on his own."

 

"And you're willing to manage him?" The look she pointed in Hank's direction--he was onstage arguing with Pistol about where they should stand--spoke volumes. John shook his head. "He doesn't deserve you."

 

"Nobody deserves me," replied Katie with a shrug. "But the heart wants what it wants."

 

***

 

Her words lingered with John on the night before previews when he met Humphrey at a nearby Italian place. Standing beside his brother was a dark-haired, statuesque woman with an unsettlingly direct gaze. "This is Eleanor, my fiancée. Eleanor, my brother John."

 

Four years earlier, Humphrey had caused a sensation at their dad's sixtieth birthday party by breaking up with his long-term girlfriend Jackie right before the cake was served. The two had been long-distance since his departure for London, and while he claimed there wasn't anyone else, John had had suspicions.

 

When Eleanor was in the restroom, Humphrey leant forward, a grin on his face that made him suddenly look fifteen. "So? What do you think?"

 

"I think," said John, "that you two behave as though you've been together for years."

 

Humphrey glanced down at his plate. "We're getting married in a month, John. After the run starts. I was going to ask you to be my best man."

 

"And I'm happy to do it. But only if you answer my question with the truth." He paused to let the words sink in. "Was Jackie right? Were you seeing Eleanor before you broke up with her?"

 

Humphrey's expression told John all he needed to know, but he waited all the same. "Yes. Yes, I was."

 

"How long?"

 

"Third week of drama school."

 

"Oh, for god's sake, Humphrey--"

 

"I kept trying to tell Jackie and she wouldn't listen!" Humphrey hissed. "She was so insistent that we could make it work, but goddammit, John, Eleanor _understands_ me."

 

"Is that what they're calling it these days?"

 

"It's not _like_ that. Jackie kept talking about the two of us living in a Boston suburb with two kids and dogs and a yard. She thought the theatre was something I'd just grow out of, that I'd raise the family while she worked her way to tenure, and no matter how I tried to explain it to her, she just didn't _get_ it."

 

Dogs and kids in a Boston suburb sounded pretty nice to John, but he just rolled his eyes. "Did you ever tell _her_ the truth about Eleanor?"

 

"I wrote her a letter after we broke up," said Humphrey. "She never wrote back."

 

"I'm not surprised." John glanced up to see Eleanor exiting the ladies' room. "Well, I'm glad you found what you were looking for."

 

Humphrey looked over his shoulder, his expression unsettlingly like Katie Mortimer's. With a shake of his head, John added, "The heart wants what it wants."

 

His brother glanced back at him with a surprised frown. "Did you seriously just say that?"

 

John shrugged. "I guess even I can learn."

 

***

 

Even John had to admit that the theatre looked amazing on opening night. Hal had managed to get in touch with the company Richard had initially contracted to renovate the place and cut a deal with them so they also got to renovate the Lancaster Hotel on the Upper West Side within the next three years at their usual price.

 

The auditorium ceiling was painted a stunning shade of royal blue, sprinkled with golden stars. The curtains were wine-red, the trim newly gilded, and the seats newly upholstered in dark green velvet. The bar served only vintage cocktails-- _at least for the previews_ , Hal had explained, _it's about cache_ \--and there were at least three different signs that everyone passed on their way into the auditorium that forbade cellphone video in a charming 1930s font.

 

There had been one small hiccup when he and Hal arrived at the theatre to find Jack Falstaff planted in front of the doors, his voice booming like a megaphone-- _You, sir! Too, sir! Welcome to the chair! Sweeney's waiting, I want you bleeders_ \--until roughly five policemen dragged him away.

 

Hal watched them go. "He'd have been amazing, you know," he said under his breath after the sirens faded into the night.

 

"He would have. But he couldn't hold his shit together and that wasn't fair to Humphrey," John reminded him. "There's a tradeoff."

 

"Yeah. Dad said that." Hal looked up at the theatre's polished façade. "Richard should be here."

 

John waited a moment before gently shaking Hal's shoulder. "Come on. There's still gladhanding to do before curtain."

 

He was glad Hal didn't see the relief on his face when the doors closed behind them, shutting out Jack Falstaff and the rest of the world.

 

They'd come this far. The show would fucking go on.

 

And it did.

**Author's Note:**

> The play is (perhaps obviously) Stephen Sondheim's _Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street_. For reasons of fic plot, characters from both parts of _Henry IV_ (and a bit from _Henry V_ ) are kind of jumbled up together.


End file.
